On Makara Beach

Tom & Criggy picked us up and we drove, enchanted, to the end of the road over the mountains. Houses abruptly dropped away. Instead: swans, sheep, the adorable pukeko, some kind of funny duck with a black neck that probably wasn't a duck at all.

Tom lodged the car in a bed of gravel and we got out to face down the wind. If you leaned forward to about 20 degrees its invisible hand held you still. Rocks thrown in front of you ended up far, far behind you. Seagulls flew backwards. It was a very Star Trekkian scenario.

We managed to walk less than a kilometer away, but found a (sadly undocumented here) Portuguese Man o' War, spread out like a thick piece of blue rubber, cast upon one of the rocks.

By contrast the sunny day from the pleasant-facing side of our flat looks like a postcard:

Alas, I'm inside, hacking down a cold with tea, heater, spicy soups, and studying for the GRE this Saturday, and reading a record-number of books at once, which isn't something I normally do. The fevered inner monologue of Crime and Punishment; Adriana Cavarero's feminist take on narrative; a Norton (surprising) anthology of contemporary poetry (more surprise when I realize I like Kenneth Koch, and here I was thinking I hated him!); Oranges are not the only fruit. Last night I reread Diary of a Bad Year & finished the quickbook on literary theory--but those are in the service & interests of studying.

So perhaps not as stranded as I could be, and at least out of the wind.